Who You Are In High School
by Dreaming of Everything
Summary: Trent knew that something was off about Sam, so he decided to find out what. Unluckily for him, he did... Things are getting dangerous again, with the humans and Autobots fighting for their lives, and things are changing, especially for Trent. MilesTrent.
1. Accidentally Involved

**Who You Are In High School**  
**Chapter One: Accidentally Involved**  
By Dreaming of Everything (or Dreams of All, or Dream it All)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers in any way, shape or form. Even though there are an awful lot of them out there—two movies, cartoons, new cartoon, various comics, movie novelizations, etc.

**Author's Notes**: Okay, so this is Trent/Miles (or Miles/Trent, take your pick) slash. Yes, there's something wrong with the way my mind works. I think this is kind of my human-only Transformersverse OTP at the moment. Clearly, I am under a lot of stress.

While we're talking about pairings, the Miles/Trent comes with a side order of Sam/Mikaela, entirely free of charge. However, that's merely an incidental—this fic isn't going to focus on them as a pairing. Actually, romance in general is only one of the two main genres; the other is action/adventure. Yes, there's going to be plot mixed in with all this.

More to the point, this story came out of nowhere and blindsided me while I was innocently working on Getting to Know You, and I started writing with no real idea in mind except for this one scene that I needed to work up to (one that ended up being scrapped and then salvaged and reshaped at a later point, no less) and I still don't actually have an outline. Or much of anything else, really. We'll see what happens.

Many, many thanks to my incredible betas, **mmouse** and **hradzaka**. They are phenomenal!

And now, story.

oOoOoOo

Trent had never meant to end up following Sam Witwicky. Stalking him. And he sure as hell wasn't _gay_ or anything. It hadn't been like that, at the beginning—he'd just been watching him, because there was something fishy about everything.

Somehow, Sam Witwicky, high school nobody, one of the biggest losers in their grade if you ignored his only friend, had ended up with a brand-new Camaro, custom-painted to match the old junker he'd only had for a few weeks at the outside, and he had this feeling that it had something to do with Mission City, but not with what Sam said or the government said—which was just fucking _weird_.

Sam had said that he'd gotten it to replace his old car when it had ended up crushed, but the government didn't shell out tens of thousands of extra dollars—at the very least—to buy a high school kid a car that wasn't only an improvement but a whole new order of being. Of course, ordinarily they wouldn't buy the car in the first place, but Mission City had been different. Everybody knew it was a cover-up for _something_.

And Sam and Mikaela—they'd never had a chance, and his hopeless sighing had been kind of funny. But all of a sudden they were closer than Mikaela had been with _anyone_—and he willingly included himself in that—for no real reason and, again, it had happened almost overnight. Plus, the two of them acted like they had some sort of a secret—a real one, not that thing some people ended up doing when they started dating, with the hushed giggles and in-the-hallway whispered conversations.

He hadn't liked it. Didn't like it. Something was wrong. He had a good nose for that kind of thing. And then his dad'd been pressuring him to find another girlfriend—to get Mikaela back, preferably, or someone else even hotter. His dad didn't like it when his son didn't have a good girlfriend—he'd dumped one girl because she'd been plain, even if she'd been nice. His dad liked having pictures to show around, of his son and his current 'prize,' and his friends laughed if it wasn't anyone worth having. They did the same with their own sons, and Trent knew it meant a lot to his dad. He wasn't going to say know to having a hot chick, either.

So he'd started watching the Witwicky boy, and things had just gotten stranger. Once, coming in or out of the school parking lot on his way back from lunch—open campus during breaks was his favorite part of being a senior—he'd noticed that the Witwicky's car wasn't in the parking lot, even though he could see with his own two eyes that Sam hadn't left the campus—he was eating lunch up in the bleachers with Mikaela, and they were kissing—and he could have sworn that the loser had driven to school that day. He'd checked that afternoon and, sure enough, Sam had driven back home in his bright yellow-with-stripes brand-new 2008 Camaro.

Something was off. The more he watched, the more wrong things were.

And so he'd started following him—casually, at first, to see if he could catch something that would explain what was going on. He didn't know what would explain everything, although he knew that it centered around that damn car, but then, he'd never been good at mysteries. He'd always been the sort of person left with no clue until the very, very end, when everything was spelled out. Bothered the hell out of his English teachers, that, but the dumb bitches weren't going to make a difference. He was going to college on a football scholarship, and it didn't matter if he couldn't analyze _lit-ur-a-tur_ or not as long as he wasn't failing.

But there hadn't been anything obvious, and there hadn't been any ending in sight to make everything clear. And so he'd kept it up. He'd found some chick to replace Mikaela to keep his dad happy—she was cute enough, he guessed. She was nice, when she talked to him. He didn't talk back much—he never knew what to say. Some girls liked that. Mikaela hadn't. He'd never really known what to do with her, and when he did do something or say something, it always came out wrong. She was a lousy kisser, but whatever.

So when Sam had all but ran out of class in the middle of third period chemistry with Chalcedin, saying that he was about to be violently ill and needed to go home _right now_, followed minutes later by Mikaela, who said she needed to use the bathroom, Trent followed both of them, trailing the yellow car as it wove in and out of the mostly-deserted mid-morning streets, heading further and further out into the middle-of-nowhere desert surrounding the city. As he'd expected, Mikaela had headed out to meet up with Sam instead of going anywhere near the bathroom, and Sam wasn't going anywhere near his home, with Mikaela or without. It wasn't like they'd skipped school so they could go home and fuck or something, then.

So now he was speeding along behind them at a discreet distance, midmorning on a Thursday in October, without the slightest idea of what they were doing or where they were going.

He had that gut-feeling that his dad had always told him to trust, like a real man, though, and it said that he was going to get all this all figured out, today, and that was enough for him.

oOo

Sam hadn't been expecting a text message in class—the only people who had his number were his parents, Mikaela, Miles and probably the government, anyways, and it certainly wasn't going to be any of them—and especially not one from his car.

"New Autobot arrival," the message read—Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the perfect grammar and spelling, no shorthand or chatspeak in sight. It was a _text message_, for God's sake. "We're closest. Coming?"

He passed a note to Mikaela, and then he headed out the door. To hell with school—he was going to go serve as an interstellar diplomat. Anyways, it was only right that new arrivals to earth be greeted by its native inhabitants, even if the existence of their very species was totally unknown by the vast majority of humans. He'd said as much, to Optimus, who had, to his surprise, agreed.

oOo

"The signal's disappeared," said Bumblebee suddenly.

"And what does that mean?" asked Mikaela hesitantly.

"That there's something wrong."

"_Fuck,_" said Sam vehemently. There had been a handful of new arrivals, but they were almost invariably new _Decepticon_ arrivals, whether under the direction of Starscream or some other 'Con, or working on their own. The one new Autobot who had appeared had been followed by, preceded by and arrived with Decepticons. New arrival plus strange circumstances had come to equal a whole hell of a lot of trouble.

"And we're being followed," continued Bumblebee. "I'm not getting a Cybertronian energy reading off of the car, but that doesn't mean that doesn't mean it's just a regular earth car. It's not inconceivable that someone could fool my scan programs."

Mikaela twisted around in her seat to look behind them. Sure enough, there was a faint plume of dust at the very edge of visibility, and a slight gleam that could be metal or glass. "How long?" she asked, as she turned back around.

"I don't know. Every one of my senses says it's just an ordinary car, and it might be—but it might not be. Anyways, it's taken me so long to notice it because it's just another earth vehicle, as far as I can tell, it's just following us. It's been behind us since before we crossed the county border, but I don't know how long before that."

"Can we lose him?" asked Sam.

"Not out here," said Mikaela. It was true—it was flat, open clear desert, nothing but a few small, scrubby trees for miles. There was nowhere to hide.

"We could try outrunning him," said Bee. "We're well above the speed limit already, but these roads are deserted; I'll sense any police before they know we're there—and if he speeds up to keep pace with us, we'll know for sure that he's after us."

"Let's do it," said Sam.

oOo

They'd been going fast already—well above the speed limit. That was okay; Trent was a good driver and had a better car. He'd been able to keep up with them.

And then they'd started really moving.

"Holy _fuck,_" Trent said, out loud and involuntarily, as the car started accelerating. There was driving a little bit too fast, then there was speeding, then there was plain fucking stupid driving, and only _then_ there was what they were doing. He'd only ever done the first three. That damned Camaro _had_ to have been illegally modified, on top of everything else. He was sick with jealousy.

Resolutely, he speeded up as well. He couldn't keep up with that, but hopefully they'd slow down after a short ways. It wasn't like they could really hide, out in the desert like this.

oOo

"He's still there," said Bumblebee grimly.

"What do we do?"

"We get to where the signal came from first—if the Autobot that sent out the signal's still there, we'll have backup. And then we'll see."

oOo

Trent followed the car, and then the dust it had thrown up—it wasn't like there were any roads to turn off of, anyways, even if he couldn't keep up. They'd have to stop eventually.

And eventually they did, and he did catch up. The car had slowed down again, moving at a slower pace than it had since they'd left the city behind, as much at random as it had speeded up in the first place.

He fell back into place as far away as he could get and still have the Camaro—and with it the two people in it—clearly in his sights. He didn't want to miss anything—he was sick of this game. He'd have turned around right then and there, but he was too close, now, and it was too much of a mystery. He just wanted to have the damn thing _done_ with.

oOo

Bumblebee slowed back down as they approached the original location of the beacon. It was hard to scan, especially accurately, at high speeds, and this wasn't a situation they wanted to be rushing into blind.

There wasn't anything showing up, but something about the situation struck him as subtly wrong, even more than the facts warranted.

He paid closer attention to his still-active scans, the most refined one. Everything was running like clockwork—this wasn't a virus, especially considering that Ratchet had just checked him over the other day. Carefully, he watched the progression of the scan.

And—there. It was skipping just a little, the tiniest bit, so slightly that it was as much instinct as actual observation that noticed the slight wobble more than a quarter of a mile in front of him and to his left.

"There's _something_ over to the side," he said. "You should stay here, and let me transform—I can't get there as a car, and you'll be safer."

"Fine," said Sam, sounding somewhat grudging but also understanding, accepting. Even considering that he'd been the one who killed Megatron, he knew how outclassed he was—how all humans were, really—when it came to fighting the Transformers. Not that they couldn't do a considerable amount of damage to a Decepticon, but it helped when they had guns, lots of backup and Autobots to help.

Bumblebee stopped, and the two humans got out. A few short seconds later he was standing fully upright, silently thankful for the incredible remoteness of the location. Honestly, he didn't know why anyone had bothered to put a road out here at all.

oOo

Trent stared in unbelieving horror as the giant robot—the _yellow_ giant robot—suddenly appeared on the horizon. It had been Sam's car. The Camaro that'd been haunting his sleep for months was a fucking_giant robot_. That had been a car. _Jesus Christ_.

He'd automatically slammed on the brake when that—that _thing_ had appeared, and now he turned off his car, because there were some things you just couldn't deal with and drive at the same time. Still in a shocked half-daze he stumbled out of his car, and thought about running away as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

And then the robot was looking at him, and he just about wet himself.

"It's just a human," said Bumblebee to his friends, relieved that it wasn't a real threat—it wasn't a Decepticon—and worried about how to deal with this now. The Autobots were still a well-kept secret, and Optimus had given them orders to keep it that way. "I think I've seen him at your school." Probably one of the kids who tended to stare enviously, and there were a fair number of them. It was the only real benefit to driving Sam to school each day—other than the chance to spend time with him, of course.

"Who?" said Sam, sounding baffled. "Because having someone following me from school is really, really creepy."

"I had a boy stalk me once," said Mikaela, looking deeply unnerved. "It was…" She didn't finish the sentence.

"You go deal with him," suggested Bumblebee. "I'll head over there."

"Okay," said Mikaela. "Come on, Sam, let's go get this straightened out."

"Be careful," said Sam, worried, to his best friend.

"You, too."

"Give us a _little_ credit," said Mikaela with a small smile. "Only one of us is going to end up dealing with 'Cons, after all."

The two humans and the Autobot turned and went their separate ways. Slowly, cautiously, Sam and Mikaela approached the form still standing, half-leaning against his car for support, down the road from them.

"That's Trent's car," said Mikaela, frowning slightly, as they approached.

"That's Trent," said Sam, sounding confused. "What the hell was _he_ doing, following us?"

"Jealousy?" suggested Mikaela.

"Of what? It's not like you were going to hook back up with him, even if you weren't dating me."

"Still, were not talking about someone who's going to make _sense,_ here. How do we explain this?"

"Can we tell him that if he ever bothers anybody in high school again we'll sic our robot on him?" Sam only half-sounded like he was joking.

"We probably owe him the truth," Mikaela said resignedly, answering her own question and ignoring Sam's.

"Yeah," Sam replied, half serious and sober and half resigned. "But how do we tell him that?"

"Slowly, and with small words." Sam laughed at Mikaela's comment. "Hey, I never said dating him was a good idea."

"Mikaela? _Witwicky?_" said Trent as the two approached him. "What… What—?"

"That was Bumblebee," said Sam with a sigh. "My best friend."

Trent looked lost, confused, horrified, disbelieving.

"He's an Autobot," Sam continued. "And he's here fighting Decepticons, who want to kill or enslave all of humanity and then strip the earth's resources. He's helped save the world from them, including _your_ sorry ass. The question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

"I was following you," said Trent. The other two humans waited for him to continue, but he didn't explain himself any further.

"Because…?" prompted Mikaela.

"Something was wrong!" Trent blurted out. "I didn't know it was giant robots! Oh God, please don't let it kill me."

"_He_ isn't going to kill you," said Mikaela, irritated.

"Or any other humans," Sam added. "Much as I sometimes wish otherwise."

"'He?'" asked Trent, clinging to the little details like a life raft. "Jesus Christ, they have _dicks_?"

"No, they have personalities," explained Sam, voice heavy with pretend-patience and irritation. "_He_ is a person, and so we don't refer to him as an 'it.'"

"They? How many…?"

"Six Autobots," said Sam promptly. "Maybe seven now—that's why we're here. We don't know how many Decepticons."

"And… Those are the ones who want to kill humanity. Jesus-fucking-Christ. The government?"

"They know, and they're helping to keep the secret. So this isn't something you can tell _anyone_. Parents, best friends, girlfriends—Optimus Prime or the Secretary of Defense have to approve the person before you do." Not technically true, but everyone currently 'in the know'—Sam and Mikaela and their parents, Maggie, Glen, the Lennoxes, the highest-up government officials—wasn't likely to go blabbing secrets around to anyone and everyone. Sam didn't trust Trent's discretion.

"Oh God," Trent whimpered again. Mikaela sighed heavily.

"Oh, deal with it. Most of the Autobots are better people than _you_ will ever be, and—and Sam, why is Bumblebee coming back?"

"He's running," Sam said, suddenly worried. "He's… Oh, _shit!_ Mikaela, run!" Reacting on pure instinct and adrenaline, Sam pushed Mikaela to one side and tackled Trent, dragging the boy down to the ground with him as something metallic flashed past them, whirring as it went. There was a small explosion a ways away as it hit the ground.

And then there was another, much large explosion as Bumblebee shot at the slightly blocky, vicious looking robot that had attacked them in the first place. Sam couldn't see how much damage the shot had caused—the dust it threw up covered the scene. Carefully, slowly, he began to pull himself off of Trent. Mikaela's hand gripped at his shoulder, looking for reassurance.

"Ambush," said Bumblebee grimly, standing over the humans protectively. "Be careful. This isn't all the surprises they have in store."

"And the signal?" asked Sam, still huddled on the ground, to present less of a target.

"An Autobot, a new one. He's dead now, I think. I couldn't get a good look at him to be sure, though. We have more immediate problems. And something's blocking all of my transmissions—I can't get through to anyone else."

Trent screamed. Sam's head whipped around, to catch sight of another Transformer—another Decepticon—appearing from over the crest of a hill. And another, and another. They spread out, encircling the group, all incredibly silent.

Bumblebee's cannons were fully charged, both of them, and he swung around to follow the circling robots. All of them were small—smaller than Jazz, not big enough to be cars when they were transformed—and all of them were the same dull red color, the shade of half-dried blood.

A sixth slipped into the circle, this one shaped like an animal, more like the Decepticon that had attacked Will, Epps and the rest of his team out in the desert than like an Autobot. A smaller Transformer followed it, not much bigger than Frenzy had been. Somewhere between waist and chest high on an average human—it was hard to tell, from where Sam was, sprawled on the ground.

"Kill the humans last," he ordered, voice flat. Bumblebee spat out something in Cybertronian, probably a curse, and Sam broke out in a cold sweat. Bee couldn't defend himself properly while he was protecting them, and the one giving the orders—funny that he was the smallest of the group, some part of his mind whispered—knew that, and was going to use it to kill him.

"Oh God, I'm going to die," Trent gasped. For the first time, one of the robots surrounding them snickered, breaking the eerie silence briefly before it returned.

One of the robots feinted, and Bumblebee shot; there was a wave of dust that billowed into the air, blowing slightly away from them on the faint breeze, and the three humans flinched. The robot reappeared out of one side of it, staggering before he righted himself and resumed his pacing, limping slightly and leaking a little fluid from one still-smoking shoulder.

Each of Sam's hands was being held tightly, one by Mikaela and one by Trent. Sam squeezed back just as tightly as they were holding onto him. For once, he really might die. This might be the end of everything. He trusted Bumblebee, with his life and everything else, but this was an impossible situation, a nightmare scenario. They were badly outnumbered without a good way to defend themselves, with no backup and no way to call for it, in the middle of nowhere.

At some unspoken command, there was another brief flurry of attacks. There was the roar of Transformer cannons and a brief metallic screech, and Bumblebee kicked away the crumpled but still flailing body of the 'Con he had hit. The badly injured robot crawled back over to the leader, who was still standing to one side. He hissed angrily over the body of his damaged subordinate. Bumblebee stiffened—

And then it was chaos, a flurry of metallic forms surrounding them, a writhing, impenetrable wall. Sam kicked, hard as he could, at a body that pressed too close, keeping a slash at his face with a bladed hand from doing any more damage than a thin cut; besides him, Trent was doing the same, and Mikaela.

The noise was suddenly increased tenfold as the deeper, more resonant sound of the big guns the full-sized Transformers had joined in the chaotic mess of noises. Sam felt something in him despair—they were being aimed at them. There were _more_ Decepticons. He crushed himself further against the other two humans, backing away from the attackers as much as there was room, and then had the sudden, brief impression of lips pressing against his—and they weren't Mikaela's, some part of him realized—before the ground was falling away underneath him and he was suddenly far, _far_ above the ground, being held by Bumblebee—he could see enough of the hand and its paint to recognize him.

Then they were moving. He was being held cradled in that one hand, against Bee's chest; he couldn't see what had happened. "Mikaela?" he yelled, panicked for one moment before he relaxed, a little—Bumblebee wouldn't leave Mikaela behind, no matter what—but there wasn't any response. The Autobot holding him was either too preoccupied to answer, or couldn't hear him, or both.

There was another explosion, close by, and Bumblebee jerked a little, half-tripped. Sam was jolted painfully, but he knew that it couldn't have hurt him as badly as whatever had happened had to have hurt his friend.

It felt like he'd been in the hand a minor eternity, but he knew that it probably wasn't any longer than a minute. The midday SoCal desert sunshine was painfully bright against his eyes as the hand was carefully drawn back. He was set gently on the desert floor. Mikaela and Trent were deposited next to him, not nearly so gently, and Sam threw back his head to look at the Autobots who'd been carrying them. There were two of them, much taller than Bee, one bright golden yellow and the other red.

"Funny looking things," said the red one brightly. "Giving you a hell of a problem, too."

Bumblebee bristled slightly. Sam probably would have said something himself, and Mikaela might have as well, but he was still far too shaken. His mouth was bone dry, and his breath was coming slightly hard.

"That 'funny-looking thing,'" Bumblebee said, voice remarkably pointed, "Killed Megatron. He's braver than most Autobots I've known."

"It did? _Really_?" the yellow one said, sounding incredulous.

Sam ignored him and his pronouns. "Mikaela?" he asked, standing slowly and making his way over to kneel next to her. "Are you okay?"

She moaned faintly. "Mikaela?" Sam said again, more urgently. This time, she stirred slightly, then rolled onto her back. Her shirt was riding up, revealing what looked like the beginnings of painful bruising. Sam hissed.

"Ngh. Sam," Mikaela said, voice a little breathy with pain and lost wind. "What happened?"

"We ended up with backup after all. Newcomers. Are you okay?"

"I'll live," she winced, looking increasingly more alert. "Next time someone's carrying me, though, I'd like someone who doesn't squeeze that hard, if it's all the same. _Ow_."

Sam glared at the two new ones.

"Sunny," said the red one reproachfully, "you should be more careful. Now the little guy's going to try something rash." Sure enough, Bee was looking minutes away from jumping one or the other of the two. Or both.

"Don't call me that," the other muttered darkly back.

"Trent's bleeding," said Bumblebee, deciding to follow Sam's approach and ignore the other two. "I've contacted Ratchet and he's on the way here—he's got an army medic with him, and we've been told to leave him here, and try to stop the bleeding. Ratchet's going to look at the Autobot they used to signal their presence here."

"So com lines are back on?" asked Sam.

"Yes," confirmed Bumblebee, but before he could say anything more the red Autobot interrupted him.

"There was another Autobot here?" he said, voice intense. The other was watching Bumblebee for his reply with just as much focus.

"Yes," said Bumblebee. "He looked like he was in bad shape. I'm not sure if he's still activated."

The two didn't even bother responding, striding off in the direction Bumblebee had indicated with his hands while he'd been talking.

"Huh," said Bee, before turning his attention back to the humans. He crouched down, to get closer to them.

Sam and Mikaela had shakily made their way to their feet, and wobbled their way over to Trent together. They were feeling considerably more charitable when it came to him—life-and-death situations seemed to do that, they'd realized.

"What can we use for bandages?" Mikaela asked, hovering over his prone form. One of the Decepticons had managed to tear a large gash into his side, and his breathing was harsh. His eyes were unfocused with the pain. Wordlessly, Sam pulled off his shirt and passed it to her. She hesitated for just a second before she pressed it against the wound.

Trent flinched as his eyes focused on Bumblebee.

"It's okay," the Autobot said lowly, voice as soothing as he could make it. Carefully, he reached out and touched the boy, gently. Trent shuddered, but didn't react any more than that. Bumblebee had protected him throughout the battle, had been the only shelter that he—that any of them—had had.

The four stayed like that, all silent except for sometimes Trent, for a few long moments. After a while Bumblebee looked up; after another moment the humans could hear the noise that had caught his attention, a repetitive clanging.

After a minute a blur on the horizon resolved itself into a muddled blob, and then the two Autobots who'd rescued them, supporting a third, shorter Autobot between the two of them—Sam guessed that he was the one whose signal had been used by the Decepticons. The clanging was one of the short one's legs, bumping rhythmically into the red one with each step.

The odd trio made their way back over to the group.

"What's the situation?" asked Bee, voice strictly professional.

"We don't know him, but we got some of the situation from him before he slipped into partial recharge," said the red one. "It's light's-on-nobody-home, right now. He's just going through the motions."

Bumblebee carefully didn't say 'Yes, but _what_ is 'the situation'?'

"He's got isolation issues," the newcomer continued finally. "And the Decepticons cut the wires to all his sensory arrays except for touch. That's why we're all cozied up like this—Primus knows it's not comfortable. Damn kid keeps on hitting me. The only communication arrays he's got right now are the long-distance numbers, and that's how we got this much information.

"There's not much else, though—he's lost vocal speech and short-distance com lines and centers; his self-repair's shot to hell and back, to the point where he's lucky he's not growing extra limbs or something; the injuries you can see for yourself, plus some internal issues; a few subroutine malfunctions; probably some other things on top of all that."

Bumblebee whistled. "It's bad. Is there someone you _are_ looking for, though? You seemed awfully interested in going to check the situation out."

"Nobody in particular," said the red one casually, glancing across at his companion. "Hey, we never did introduce ourselves. I'm Sideswipe, and this is Sunstreaker. Twins."

"Bumblebee," said the spy, introducing himself. "That's Sam, Mikaela and Trent."

"Like I'm going to bother learning squishy organic names," said Sunstreaker dismissively. Bumblebee growled.

"This has to be too much blood," said Mikaela, sounding slightly panicked. "Bee, how long until Ratchet's here?"

"Not much longer," he reassured them. "He doesn't need to worry about speed limits."

"Red's such a weird color for internal fluids," Sideswipe said, shifting his grip on the Autobot he was holding so he could lean over the small huddle of teenagers. Sam spared a quick glance overhead.

"Shut up, please," he said, before he turned his attention back to the still-bleeding boy on the ground in front of him.

"Watch it," rumbled Sunstreaker, the yellow one, from the other side of the slumped Autobot. "Sideswipe, you're going to end up scraping gray paint all over me, and _don't talk back to my brother_, human."

Bumblebee stood with a sudden clanging of metal against metal. "I don't think you understand the situation," he said loudly. "Either of you. Here on earth, Cybertronians are the minority. The _vast_ minority. This is not our planet, this is not our country, this is not any sort of situation where we should press our advantage. We are here as_guests_, nothing more."

"And friends," interjected Mikaela distractedly, voice strained. "Sam, would you take Trent's hand? He's holding on too hard." Sam took Trent's unoccupied hand, somewhat reluctantly, wincing as the other boy's larger hand clenched around his. He didn't complain, though—he couldn't imagine how much pain Trent was suffering. Slowly, carefully, Mikaela eased her hand out of his hold.

"There is nothing that makes us superior to humanity in any way," Bumblebee continued. "I say it, the rest of the Autobots here say it, Optimus Prime says it; he owes his life to Sam. If you disagree with that, I'm sure that Starscream or some other Decepticon would be glad to have you join their cause. Probably not the ones you just helped me escape from—I doubt they'd be willing to take you, now."

Sunstreaker unceremoniously dumped his share of the not-conscious Autobot's weight on Sideswipe, striding forward to tower over Bee's ramrod-straight form. Both stood aggressively, unwilling to stand down, and Sunstreaker towered over the smaller Autobot.

"Are you implying that we're _traitors?_" hissed Sunstreaker.

"I'm just saying that you seem to follow Decepticon values more closely than Autobot ones," Bee snapped back, voice dangerous. Sam and Mikaela watched the two nervously.

"'Streaker," said Sideswipe warningly, looking at him seriously. "Don't. We'll_really_ need to join the 'Cons if we attack an Autobot within an hour of landing on Earth. And hey, he might be right—and you do end up giving the impression of being a condescending bastard when people first meet you. Probably 'cause you are."

"It's okay, Bee," Sam said. "I don't particularly care what anyone says about humanity right now, really. I just don't want another fight." Mikaela nodded vigorously.

Slowly, carefully, the two backed away from each other. The two uninjured humans relaxed visibly.

"Here, you take this guy, okay?" asked Sideswipe after another minute, to Bee. "You're more the same height, it won't be as uncomfortable as this is."

"Fine," said Bumblebee slowly, rising to his feet.

"Don't bother getting up," said Sideswipe, handing the only-barely-responsive Autobot to Bumblebee. The still-unnamed newcomer clung.

"Oof," said Bee, surprised. "He really is having trouble, isn't he?"

"Yeah, I dunno what—is that that Ratchet person you were talking about?"

"Yes," Bumblebee replied instantly, relief clear in his voice. "Good. _Good_. He'll have the human medic with him, and _this_ one needs urgent care as well."

"Good," said Mikaela vaguely. Then, a non-sequitor, "I'm covered in blood." Sam reached across Trent to take a hold of one her hands with the hand he still had free.

Ratchet was there within thirty seconds. He pulled to a hurried stop, and a human Sam and Mikaela didn't recognize jumped out almost before he'd fully halted. Ratchet was transforming as soon as the woman was out of his door.

The human medic bent to examine Trent. Mikaela and Sam backed away to give him room, Sam forcing his numb fingers out of Trent's still-grasping hand as he went. Silently, they watched the medic work, waiting anxiously.

"It missed anything essential," said the medic at last. "He'll live. He needs a hospital, though—I need to get him back to the base."

Mikaela and Sam both relaxed. Trent was a jerk, and he'd been half-stalking them, but he was still _human_. He'd been one of them, too, when they'd all been huddling beneath Bee while he fought off the team of Decepticons. There hadn't been time to think of petty grudges, or of high school football team misogyny.

They turned to watch Ratchet, who was working on the still-unresponsive Autobot clinging to Bumblebee, who was sitting patiently on the ground and moving as Ratchet told him too, so that the medic could reach one part or another of the other.

Cautiously, the new human moved over to where Ratchet was working. After a second, he looked up. "Can I help you?" he asked, still distracted.

"Yes," said the woman. "I need to get the injured one to somewhere with medical facilities."

"Have one of them take you," the medic said, indicating Sideswipe and Sunstreaker with a toss of his head. "I need to get this one stabilized and then conscious—or reactionary, at least, he's not actually unconscious—before we go. He's too big for me to carry."

She frowned slightly. "Okay," she said, a bit hesitant. "It would be better if you took us—sirens—but this will work."

Ratchet looked over at the two newcomers. "Which one of you takes the humans?" he said, glancing between the two.

"He does," said Sunstreaker.

"I do," said Sideswipe, just a split second after his brother started speaking. He started transforming, rolling gently over to where Trent still lay on the ground. Together, the humans tried their best to help Trent into the car as gently as they could.

There was a brief conundrum as they realized that, with Trent sprawled in the backseat, there was only room for two other humans.

"Fine," growled Sunstreaker, even though nobody had said anything. He transformed as well. When none of the humans walked over to him he pulled up besides Sideswipe and popped open a door, making his point obvious.

"I'll go," said Sam.

"Me too," said Mikaela, voice clearly extremely doubtful, still clinging to his hand. Sam was glad for that—he didn't want to let go, either. Mission City hadn't been this—bloody, and the danger hadn't been so unexpected.

They were off within minutes, the two cars—matching Lamborghinis and _damn_ fine cars, Mikaela thought with some distracted, shock-riddled corner of her mind, even if the one they were in _had_ bruised most of her body, from her upper thighs to her chest—speeding down the road at speeds high enough to make Sam a little nervous. Not that Bee was much slower, sometimes, but that was different. With Bee, it wasn't just a car—well, an Autobot—moving too fast.

"Do you know where we're going?" said Mikaela hesitantly, after a minute. There was a pointed, preoccupied silence for a few minutes.

"—the medic's given me coordinates," Sunstreaker said at last. Sam had the distinct feeling that he'd just finished getting them. Silence fell again.

"I hope Trent's okay," said Mikaela, and then burst into tears. Despite himself, and despite reminding himself that the crying, at least, was probably stress, Sam felt distinctly jealous as he held his sobbing girlfriend.

"Sorry," sniffled Mikaela into his shoulder. "It's just, oh God, Sam, I really thought we were going to die." She fell silent abruptly, glancing swiftly about the cabin of the car they were in, as if she was suddenly conscious of who was obviously listening in.

"I know," he whispered softly, and he held her closer.

It was quiet for another long stretch of road that flashed past the car windows, blurring with speed. Any cop that had seen them would have had a coronary, but the military base the Autobots were currently using was in just as isolated a spot as the place the ambush had taken place was. The roads were deserted—and it was still, Sam noted with a detached feeling of surprise, the middle of the day on a sunny October Thursday. He felt like something more noticeable should have changed—it was like going home after Mission City, kind of, only less so.

Sam was surprised when they pulled up at the gates of the military complex. He was more surprised when they were let in without a fuss, both them and Sideswipe and his passenger, in front of them. He supposed that one of the gate guards must have recognized him and Mikaela or the medic, whatever her name was, or that Ratchet or Bee must have radioed their arrival in, or both.

Sunstreaker pulled to a halt as soon as they were inside the main hall of the still-being-constructed Autobot section of the base, doors popping open decisively. Sam and Mikaela, both feeling suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline wore off, dragged themselves out and into the cool air of the huge room. Most of the structure was underground; the buildings it would take to hold the Autobots would be highly noticeable above ground, and that had the possibility of raising questions among people who didn't need to have them answered.

"My interior is_covered_ with organic fluid," he announced as he transformed. "This is _revolting_."

"It's blood," said Sam, voice heavy with exhaustion. "Not just any organic fluid."

Ironhide materialized out of the far doorway on the other side of the room, both cannons fully transformed. He glared at Sunstreaker before he turned to look at the two humans, and once he did his eyes snapped right back up to the golden-yellow Autobot.

"What happened?" he demanded, voice dangerous. "Sam, Mikaela, what's going on?"

"It's not ours," said Mikaela immediately, realizing what the problem was: they were both covered in blood. "It's Trent's—he goes to our school, he's my ex-boyfriend. He realized something was wrong, mostly out of paranoia and jealousy, I think, and decided to follow us when we left school to investigate a new Autobot arrival.

"There was an Autobot, but he'd been attacked by Decepticons, who used his symbol and then attacked us. There was a lot of them—seven, I think, all working together. Bee was stuck, trying to defend the three of us. Trent got cut when they rushed us, and we probably would have all died, but Sunstreaker and another, Sideswipe, showed up and fought them off. They all escaped, I think. Sideswipe's headed to the base hospital to drop off Trent, who's with a human medic Ratchet brought. Ratchet's still back where all this happened, far as I know, with the Autobot the 'Cons were using and Bumbebee."

"Right," said Ironhide, still eyeing Sunstreaker. His expression was mostly doubtful, but the word really didn't cover the amount of _trouble_ it promised if something went wrong and 'Hide had reason to think that Sunstreaker had caused it.

"Cannons away, Ironhide," said Optimus Prime crisply as he walked in. "Welcome to the current Autobot base. Your name…?"

"Sunstreaker," replied the Autobot. Ironhide glared. "Sir," he added, slightly belatedly but not nearly as grudgingly as Sam would have expected from him.

"Nice to meet you, then, Sunstreaker. You got the transmission I sent?"

"Yes—has anyone else responded?"

"Someone you're looking for? Well, there's only been one other Autobot arrival." Nobody in the room missed how Sunstreaker stiffened. "His name's Wheeljack—he's a scientist. If you're interested in talking to him, he's currently in his lab on the base, I believe. Other than that, the only person—other than the humans—you haven't met is Jazz, who's in Seattle right now. He should be back in a week's time."

"Um," said Sam, after Optimus had finished. "I'm going to go get clean clothes on, okay? I'm covered in Trent's blood."

"Yes," said Mikaela, voice clearly saying that she wanted a shower more than she'd ever wanted anything else in her entire life.

"You don't look very good," said Optimus. "When you feel up to it, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a full version of the events."

"Yes, sir," said Sam, before turning to wander in the direction of the Autobot areas designed and outfitted for their human friends and guests. He'd known leaving a change of clothes here had been a good idea. Installing showers had been an even better one, possibly even better than putting in beds.

oOo

Ratchet had managed to get a temporary patch on the worst of the wounds, and closed the internal leak. That had been second priority; first priority had been to fix the self-repair functions. Sometime later he'd probably have to partially dismantle the Autobot's right arm and leg to file off some of the extra metal that had built up while program had been malfunctioning. Thankfully, it hadn't gotten far, but it had been close.

The glitches in his programming would have to wait until he was at a location with more delicate, subtler tools—it wasn't field work. Still, they weren't immediately threatening his life.

Now it was time to connect the sensory wires that had been cut. Whatever had done it had been sharp, and the cutter had been precise—not much else was damaged, and the cut was clean. Good; that made Ratchet's job much easier.

He spliced the wires leading to visuals together first, watching and waiting as the optics flickered and jumped and then finally stilled and brightened. They flicked around for a few panicked seconds, taking in the situation, before the mech relaxed, slightly loosening his grip on Bumblebee, although he didn't entirely let go. Odd—most Transformers weren't extremely tactile, as a rule. Certainly not when it came to complete strangers.

Satisfied that everything had worked properly, he reattached hearing second. Once his sensors were showing it as working well enough that the 'Bot could hear, he got Bee started on explaining the situation.

Speech lines were next. They'd been cut first, considerably before the others—before the system had shorted, the repair program had tried to reconnect them, and someone had cut out a whole section of the bundle of wires. It took longer than the others had to fix, and he had to file down the small metal scabs that had formed on the ends of some of the wires, which made it take even longer. It was dull, fidgety work, the sort of thing you made apprentices do—or what you used to make apprentices do, back when there had been the Autobots, the facilities and the time for real apprenticeship programs.

The sudden crackle and hiss of broken Cybertronian, just syllables and fragments as the speech center began to reorient itself, made Bee jump and the newcomer cringe as the yellow Autobot jostled him, scraping something against one of his still-fragile wounds. After a minute the words settled back down, but they weren't in English.

"_Who are you? What's going on? What happened? Where am I?"_ he asked, voice quick and frantic.

"_Whoah there,"_ responded Bee. _"I've been trying to explain. Haven't you been listening? Or are your audio receptors still offline?"_ Not that asking would help, if they were—he wouldn't be able to hear the question.

"_You have? I couldn't understand. It's an odd sort of language—so flat and atonal. Where are we?_"

"_Haven't you downloaded the local language?"_ asked Bee, perplexed.

"_No,"_ said the Autobot.

Ratchet groaned, and responded before he could say anymore. _"Right. Disabled communications arrays—you can't receive _anything_, can you? That will take longer to fix, it's not just a simple patch, like the others—they really got you. We use the local language regularly, here, which is why Bumblebee here was using it. There's a local information network, and it's pretty easy to figure out. The planet is called 'earth,' regionally. I don't think it has a Cybertronian name—it's very remote. The planet's full of life, all organic. The dominant life form and the only sentient species are humans—show him a holo, Bee? You'll probably end up meeting some of them once we get you back to our current base, even before I have time to get your comm. systems fixed, and I don't want you surprised too badly, or reacting wrong. You did get Optimus Prime's message, right?"_

"_Yes, I did—What's your name? I got Bumblebee's, but not yours. Oh! I'm Bluestreak. Um, thank you for letting me hold you, but it's fine if you have me let go now, I'll be fine—really, I should have been fine before, but it was all kind of getting to me…"_

Ratchet resisted the urge to snort. It hadn't just been 'getting to him'—that had been a full-blown panic attack and then some. And the way he was reacting now spoke of long-term issues and coping mechanisms. Now wasn't the time to bring that up, though. Later.

"_I'm Ratchet,"_ he said. _"Medic, like you probably gathered. If you're ready to go, we can head back to the base."_

"_Okay,"_ said Bluestreak, sounding just slightly hesitant. _"…I don't have an alt. form for here yet."_ Ratchet sighed.

"_It figures. I should have planned on this… At least it's still midday on a workday. That gives us an advantage—we're less likely to be seen. Bumblebee, where's the nearest car dealership?"_

--End chapter 1--


	2. Settling In

**Who You Are****  
Chapter Two: Settling In**  
By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers in any way, shape or form.

**Author's Notes**: It's hard to write people who need to come across as totally irrational for reasonable reasons, especially when they need to be only _slightly_ dickish.

I'm upping the rating on this to M for language—and yes, I suppose there's the possibility of sex scenes later on. A further warning: **there are homophobic slurs in this chapter**, because it's hard to write this version of Trent without them.

This is about half the material I had planned to put in this section, but this chapter just kept on sitting and sitting in my hard drive without being added to, and I figured my subconscious was trying to tell me something.

As always, tons of thanks to my beta, **mmouse15**! And thanks to **Daya-chan**, who's just awesome, and was also the one who gave me the drive to start working on this chapter again!

oOoOoOo

Trent came to in a room he'd never seen before, with pretty much his whole body aching in that numb way that spoke of heavy painkillers.

He could see the ceiling and the tops of the walls from where he was lying, and a human body to the left of him, just out of the side of the eye. More to the point, he couldn't see any giant robots, which—was good, he guessed, but still not as calming as it could have been. For all he knew, the fucking _bed_ he was lying on turned into one of the things. He was just glad he couldn't see any machinery, or any electronics, in the room.

After a minute he turned his head, slowly and cautiously and still in a way that sent spikes of pain down his spine, to look at the person next to him. His eyes narrowed into a cold glare as he realized it was Sam Witwicky.

He stopped glaring after a minute, once he realized the other boy was asleep, head half-propped on a pillow, one arm dangling down. It didn't make much sense to keep on doing it.

On the other hand, it _did_ make him even more nervous about the transforming robots. He knew Sam—Witwicky—Sam was in this deep. His _car_… It explained that crazy speed he'd seen, before he'd been shredded by the evil robots.

And that pain had to be from that. Yeah, he could remember it now—everything had gone hazy. He vaguely remembered holding somebody's hands—maybe two people's—with those giants looming above them, faces unreadable and their voices, everyone's voices, too much for him to make out words through the pain.

He'd thought he was going to die. God, he'd really thought it. He almost had. They _all_ almost had: him, Mikaela, Sam, and the giant Camaro-robot-thing.

Holy fuck.

He was seventeen, and he'd thought about joining the army. It would mean that he'd be able to stop worrying about getting a sports scholarship or what sort of school his grades would get him into, and his dad would like it. He was all for the army—or the Marines, even better. He said it separated the men from the boys.

Trent knew which one he was supposed to be.

But then, he'd just come closer to dying than his dad ever had. He hadn't done much other than whimpered, but he hadn't cut and run. He'd stayed to face the things—stayed and tried to push them away as well as he'd been able.

He'd thought about joining the army, but he'd never really thought about how that might mean he _might actually die._ Or he had, but he hadn't thought that facing death would—be like that.

Trent started as the door opened and instantly regretted it. The movement pulled hard on his stitches, and the world went blurry for a minute as he gasped.

"Oh. You're awake." Mikaela blinked at him, looking tired, dark bags underneath her eyes. "How do you feel?"

Her voice was remarkably quiet, remarkably soft, considering that the last time they'd talked they'd all thought they were about to die, and the time before that she'd split up with him, angrily and publicly.

That had been the main joke on the team for a full week, and it would have been for longer but they'd caught some loser with girl's panties in his bag.

"Like shit," he muttered, through a mouth that didn't want to move right.

"Sorry… And you, Sam?" Mikaela asked, moving closer. Understanding crossed her face as she saw him, and she smiled, slow and sweet and loving. Trent stopped mattering at all for those few seconds. He just wasn't there. Mikaela walked over and ran a hand through her boyfriend's hair, stopping on his shoulder and rubbing it gently. "Sam, you awake?"

"Hngh? Oh—Mikaela. Five more minutes…"

"So," Mikaela said after a minute, pulling out another chair and sitting down. "Autobots. Guess you're part of the secret, now."

"Yeah."

"Don't tell anyone," she said, voice still quiet to keep from waking Sam up, but tone harsh.

"Who the hell would believe me?" he snapped back, glaring.

"It—Hushing up Mission City wasn't easy. The Autobots have a program running full-tilt all the time dedicated just to finding and removing, subtly, conspiracy theories about it that cut too close to the truth. We're still afraid someone's going to find out."

"How many?"

"How many what, conspiracy theories?" She paused slightly. "Oh, Autobots. Well… Five originally. Jazz died at Mission City, but they managed to revive him two months ago or so. Then Wheeljack, then the three new ones that just arrived. You might remember two of them—one yellow, one red. They're the only reason we're still alive. Then there's a third. He was the bait that lured us—Sam, Bee and I—out there in the first place." She scowled suddenly. "I can't believe you were following us!"

There was a long pause. "…But I guess it's okay," she said at last. "I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," Trent said, half absent-mindedly, eyes wandering over the blank room. "Where am I?"

"Some secret government base."

"You're joking."

"Honest to God, I swear. I know—it's like being in a, an action movie, or a sci-fi one. It's—crazy. It makes school even more boring than I thought possible." Her eyes were bright with laughter and excitement, and Trent knew that she'd never looked this happy when they were dating. His eyes flicked quickly to the still-sleeping Sam and back to her, and he bit back his desperate confession: 'I kissed your boyfriend. I don't fucking _know_ why, okay? So don't ask me. I'm not _gay_!'

He wasn't. He couldn't be. That was for people like Max Dursham, who wouldn't shower after PE until everyone else was done, and who locked himself in a bathroom stall to change. And Mr. Kenting, who dressed in neat pull-over vests and button-down shirts, smiled too big at his students and hadn't married or even dated in the twenty years he'd lived in town. Dustin Hoffner, on the wrestling team, who spent too much time with and stood too close to pretty-boy chess-team-player Kevin Adams. It was for ugly chicks who didn't put out and man-hating feminists—feminazis, his dad called them, when he was with his buddies.

It wasn't him. He'd dated girls, and fucked them. He watched porn. He was on the football team, and he didn't look at boys. He didn't sigh over them and cut out their pictures and paste them in his binders, like Victor Hayes or that little freshman with the zits. He'd never jerked off to anything with a dick. He _wasn't gay_.

He'd just—it'd been fear. He'd been confused. It had been—hell, who knew. But he wasn't gay. It wasn't because he wanted Sam fucking Witwicky. He knew that.

Hell. He'd dated his girlfriend.

Mikaela interrupted the silence that had fallen. "I guess you'll have to get to know them."

"Who—Oh shit, the _robots?_ Fuck no!"

"They're not that bad," she said, looking amused, and Trent flushed angrily. After a minute, she continued. "Bumblebee just saved your life, you know."

"—yeah," he said, reluctantly. He knew. He remembered.

"Well, I say 'just,' but that was two days ago, now. It's Saturday."

"What?" Trent yelped, then hissed, suddenly in pain again.

"Yeah, you've been drugged pretty heavily. Actually, the doctor said you probably wouldn't wake up for another day, at least—guess she was wrong there. And don't worry about your parents. The government's gone all paranoid so they haven't told them the truth, for now at least, but they've made some sort of excuse for you. You'll get the cover story explained to you before you head home."

"—so they won't just keep me here?"

"Nope. I guess it's not _entirely_ like a bad movie. …Well, you'll be here for a while, actually. Just a few more days, and then you'll stay a while at the Autobot base. I don't know how long. And no human experimentation either, I promise—or alien experimentation, for that matter."

"With all the robots?"

"Yes. You'll like them, I can't imagine anyone not liking them. …And you don't believe me, do you. Oh well. But like I said, Bumblebee just saved your life. Our lives. And he risked killing himself to do it. He'd have been fine if he hadn't been protecting us—if nothing else, he could have cut and run, if it had just been him out there. But he stood still, to keep us safe, to give us at least a little protection."

Trent shivered again.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, after a while.

"Sam and I, we've been taking turns watching over you." She smiled, voice dry as she continued: "We figured that having someone you knew explain what happened would be a little bit easier."

"The—robot-things that attacked us?"

"Decepticons. Do you remember the little one?" Trent shook his head. "He's called Soundwave. He—controls the others, kind of. They're all sort of attached to him. Like, they're almost a part of him, but they can go wherever they want, without him being near—and he still knows what they do, and can give them orders. It makes him… Dangerous. More than they would be otherwise. He's some sort of master tactician, too."

Trent shivered.

"We're on our guard now, but he will be, too. That's part of the reason it's best you stay here."

He couldn't think of anything to say to that.

There was a long pause.

"I'm really tired."

"Go to sleep, then."

He did.

oOo

When he woke up again, Sam was there, not asleep this time. He looked bored, but his expression switched to pissy as he realized that Trent was awake.

"Finally," Sam said. "Took your own sweet time, didn't you?"

Pissy was a good word for it.

Trent thought about saying something like 'What's it to you, Witwicky?' or 'Mikaela not putting out?' or even a nice, straightforward 'Fuck you,' but he remembered Sam's car—he wouldn't piss off someone with friends like that—and also he remembered the way they'd cowered together, fearing for their lives (he remembered kissing him) and how he'd been spending hours besides his bed waiting for him to wake up, so that Trent would have someone to explain things to him.

He wondered what Sam remembered.

He just shut up his fool mouth for once (that's what his grandmother would say, his mother's mother, and then she'd smack him, when he was younger. His paternal grandmother called him Ben and asked him why he wasn't still at camp—.) because he didn't know what else to say.

The kiss hung heavy in the room, making his body feel leaden—or the painkillers were.

"We're moving you out of here today," Sam said, sounding sullen, looking pointedly away from him, to one side. "You'll be on the base for a while, though."

"Yeah," Trent muttered, even though he didn't want to leave this quiet, empty room for some place full of alien robots.

There was a long silence.

"Look," Sam said, roughly and abruptly. "I know, you were trying to kiss Mikaela, whatever, I thought I was going to die too—"

He caught the strangely too-strong relief that flashed across Trent's face. "What, you thought I was going to _hit_ you or something?" he demanded. "I'm not saying I didn't think about it—"

"The hell you could!" Trent snarled back without thinking.

"_What_, then?" Sam demanded glaring back, not even bothering to mention that Trent was bedridden and wounded. They both knew it, anyways.

"I— It's nothing! It's just what you thought! I just… Just wanted to kiss _a girl_ one more time before I died!"

"She's not just 'a girl,' she's her own person! And my girlfriend!"

"_I thought I was going to die!_ —And hell, just fuck off, Witwicky! I don't need your damn _permission!"_

Sam drew breath for another angry reply.

"Am I interrupting something?" a nurse asked, coolly professional, from the doorway. Trent flushed dramatically and Sam turned around, movements jerky and stalked towards the doorway.

"Not at all," he muttered to her as he passed.

oOo

Sam didn't know what to tell Mikaela. About the kiss. He knew he had to—and he would, eventually. Very soon, actually. He owed it to her—because Trent was just as much her problem as his. More, actually, because, loathe to admit it as Sam was, _Mikaela_ was the one Trent was interested in, out of the two of them.

He just wasn't… Quite sure how to breach the matter with her, yet.

And it didn't help that he was still jealous. Really, really jealous. Because Trent was a jerk, and didn't even have a cooler car anymore, but he was still the one Mikaela had dated previous to the whole 'saving the world thing.' And maybe he was being stupid, but he had been an utter loser throughout the whole of high school, damn it! He had the right to be emotionally needy.

oOo

Mikaela sighed heavily.

The move from the government base to the Autobot base—a fine distinction that mostly had to do with the size of the furniture—had gone off without any—well, without _many_ hitches, which was enough for her, at this point.

Trent was one of the hitches.

At least tomorrow Maggie would arrive, and the two of them—Sam and her—would have someone else to fob Trent off on. And considering the way Maggie looked, he probably wouldn't object too much. Mikaela felt a slight stab of guilt, but ignored it. It didn't keep her from making a guess as to how long it would take before Maggie got well and truly fed up.

After a moment's thought, she upped her estimate to three days. Trent _was_ badly injured, after all, and Maggie dealt with Glen on a regular basis.

On the other hand, she gave Ironhide approximately five minutes before he blew a gasket. Ratchet only slightly more time. Bee—was already somewhere between exasperated and protective, he didn't count. And she had the distinct feeling that he'd rub Optimus the wrong way—which said something. It took a lot to annoy him, far as Mikaela could tell, but something made her think that Trent would be one of them. But maybe her own opinions were clouding her judgment.

oOo

They sounded vaguely like footsteps, mostly like someone banging a hammer against a sheet of metal, and they had woken him up.

All Trent could see at the moment was a ceiling—a cold expanse of smooth metal stretching above him, far overhead.

Where was he? He thought…

There was a beeping noise, a ways away, just enough to distract him from his thoughts—the sound was magnified by the empty room—and the mechanical noise sounded oddly at home in this huge expanse of an empty room.

Oh, wait. That was right.

The robots. Trent's mind lurched a little with the sudden remembrance of fear.

Then this must be… Where they stayed. When they weren't hanging out with Witwicky. Sam. Witwicky. Whatever.

Why the fuck did the government think that it was okay to let aliens kidnap innocent citizens—he was a citizen of the _United States of America,_ god damn it—who'd gotten involved in this nightmare by accident?

_Well, mostly by accident,_ thought some scrupulous part of his mind. He _had_ been following Witwicky and Mikaela—which was probably kind of illegal—to find out what was going on. It was just his bad luck that he had.

Huh. That noise had stopped.

Wait a minute. Robots. (Fucking_ robots_, some part of his mind echoed, still not over it.) Those were…

Footsteps.

He couldn't suppress another small shiver.

After another few minutes, he pulled himself upright. He felt…

He felt damn _small._ He wanted, distinctly, to find a corner to press himself into, so he wasn't so—so _exposed,_ that was the word. So unprotected.

And yeah. Reallyfuckingsmall. Oh hell, there were those _footsteps_ again. And…

Jesus Christ.

The Camaro had been _little._ And the… other ones, the ones who'd _attacked_ him, had been little… Little robo-midgets. Or something.

But not this one. That was a really ugly green color. Green-yellow-florescent color. And the face was kind of weird. Bits and strips of metal that kind of looked face-like but not _really._ He hadn't really looked at one of them before. He'd been afraid of dying. And hadn't the yellow one had some kind of face-mask thing…?

And the robot was staring at him.

Ratchet frowned slightly, running a quick scan of the human. Elevated heart rate, but nothing fatal—frightened, presumably because of him, but nothing fatal, and most likely slightly disoriented by painkillers, on top of the fear. Nothing unexpected.

"I'm Ratchet," he said, trying to keep his voice calming—panic and stress could have any number of long-term negative effects on a human's health.

Trent made a slight squeaking noise.

Ratchet sighed and sent of a quick message to Bumblebee, telling him to get someone human to the med bay.

"I'm the medic for the Autobots. I'm in charge of watching you on a day-to-day basis; there'll be a human medic attached to the military showing up for more in-depth checkups."

The human was still staring at him, wide-eyed and unbelieving.

"Is there something wrong?"

Wordlessly, he shook his head. Ratchet bit back a mild curse.

"You're Trent, right?"

"Y—yeah," he managed, still staring at the robot cautiously.

"Hm," said Ratchet non-committedly, taking a step forward so he could move past the table and into his office, attached to the med bay.

Trent flinched as he moved forward. Ratchet didn't show any outward signs of noticing the movement.

Another set of Autobot footsteps clanging up the hallway, growing gradually louder made Trent flinch again—_Goddamnit,_ he thought, _This is fucking ridiculous, I'm acting like some pansy queer… Oh God, I don't want to face another one of them!_—and look nervously from the doorway to Ratchet and back again, not sure which one qualified the bigger threat.

Not, he realized, that it would matter. One of those things decided they wanted him dead, he'd be jam. Or ash.

The unknown robot entered, and Trent relaxed a little, almost despite himself. It was Witwicky's robot—the yellow one.

The one who'd saved his life.

Huh. Sam was with it—him—too.

"Hey, Ratchet," Sam said, stepping casually from the yellow robot—Bumblebee's—hand to the table, like it was something he did every day. "Trent."

Hell, Trent realized. It might be. Freak.

"Hello," said the robot—Bumblebee? That was such a weird name—cheerily. It—he—had a weird voice, too. Trent didn't remember that.

"Hi," he said, feeling kind of dizzy.

"Well, that's a better reaction than I got out of him," said the doctor-bot, leaning on the doorway to his office.

"You didn't save his life," said Bumblebee.

"Thanks," said Trent, because he _had_ saved his life. "Uh, I mean, thank you. Uhm."

"You're welcome," said the robot, leaning a little closer—to look him over or something? "Are you feeling better?"

"Y—yeah."

"Great," said Witwicky. "That means we can show you around!"

"Excuse me?" said the—Ratchet, voice pointed.

"Er, if Ratchet says you're doing well enough to," said Sam sheepishly.

Witwicky's robot—yeah, he thought it _was _named Bumblebee, which made no fucking sense at all—made a staticky noise.

"Oh, stop laughing," said Sam, voice mock-annoyed. "So, Ratchet, can we?"

"Maybe you should ask Trent what _he_ wants to do, first," said Ratchet, sounding amused. "And then—yes, you can show him around a _little_, assuming you want to, Trent, but he's likely to be tired and slightly dizzy."

"So, Trent, want a look around?" Sam asked, turning to him, smiling enthusiastically, giant pet robot looming behind him. Trent tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched, or blame it on the painkillers.

He had no idea what to say. He didn't want to be left alone again, but he also didn't really want to get shown around, and he wasn't sure whether it would be better to meet the rest of the robots right now or not—known dangers versus unknown ones. And he did want to see the base, but he also didn't really feel like moving. But he was going to be with one of the Autobots no matter what—and the only one he really felt safe near was Witwicky's—Bumblebee, who would presumably be doing the tour, because Sam had said 'we,' not 'I' when he'd said that he—they—would be showing him around—

"Nngh," he said out loud. "I don't—fine. Okay." His tone was almost, almost angry.

"Great," said Sam, although he sounded considerably less enthusiastic than he had. He gave him a slightly questioning look.

"What?" said Trent, voice aggressive.

"God, _nothing_," Sam said, turning away. "You know, after all the stupid little things you've done to me over the years—and there are a hell of a lot of them—maybe you should be _thankful_ I'm making an effort instead of leaving you alone to rot in here. Jesus, Trent, you think I've forgotten it all? Maybe _you_ have, but my life would have been a living hell if not for Miles from the eighth grade onwards—just think about that, okay? It wasn't _fun_. So you were an ass, maybe—just _maybe_—you've grown up, so I'm giving you a chance, right? We almost died, it's a great opportunity to reevaluate priorities, but hell, you are just as much of an ass as you've always been. I'm _trying_, here. Are you?"

"Uh—"

"Whatever, you don't have to answer that. You want me and Bee to show you around or not?"

"…Yes."

"Whoa, Sam, your bedside manner is even better than Ratchet's!" said Bumblebee, leaning close to the human to mock-whisper to him.

"I heard that," said Ratchet dryly.

_Giant robots had a sense of humor,_ Trent thought. _Who knew? _Well, Witwicky—_Sam_—apparently. He was snickering.

"You're not afraid of heights, are you?" Sam asked, walking closer to the bed.

"No…" Which was true. Kind of. They just made him kind of… Nervous. And there was no way in hell he was telling _anyone_ that.

"Great. Mind if Bee carries us? It's faster than walking, and you get a better view than if he's driving."

"…Okay."

oOo

"So, these are the common rooms—that over there's a kitchen for us organics, you can use it whenever you want to. This also where the Autobots mostly hang out when they have free time. There's usually one or two people here, no matter what time it is… Kind of weird that it's empty right now."

"There's a meeting going on with the newcomers about 'appropriate behavior,'" cut in Bumblebee. "Sort of an—orientation type of thing."

"That's a really good idea," said Sam fervently.

"What?" asked Trent—he knew he was missing something.

"I'd really rather not talk about it." Weird. He was _blushing._

"Ratchet's outfitted with really _sensitive_ chemical receptors," snickered Bumblebee. "So when we first met up with the humans— 'The boy's pheromone levels indicate he wants to mate with the female,'" he quoted, mimicking Ratchet's voice.

Sam blushed harder and groaned. "I told you, I'm trying to forget that ever happened," he said, covering his face with his hands. "But between you and Mikaela—"

The two of them—Witwicky (_Sam!_) and Bumblebee—sounded like friends. Good ones. It was… Weird. How did something like _that_ work out? What the hell did they have in common? To start with, Sam was a total nerd.

"Anyways," Sam was saying, turning back to Trent, shaking him out of his thoughts. "There's quite a few humans you might see around the base. There's—let's see—Maggie and Glen, they're government hackers; Captain Lennox and his special ops team, it used to be just a handful of guys but it's growing now they've been reassigned to the whole Autobot deal, and sometimes they bring family, if they're married; my parents come every so often, and Mikaela's parents, and I think Glen's grandma showed up once; Mikaela and I spend all the time we can here, of course; there's diplomats and politicians that show up pretty regularly—they mostly ignore me, except for that one creepy one and the Secretary of Defense, but I kind of got to know him during Mission City. Uh, and there's a few more government people."

"Oh."

"You'll meet some more of them during dinner. Lunch is usually just whenever, so it's not a good time to run into anyone. The Autobots tend to show up more around then, too, but that's just for socializing. If you do meet Wheeljack you'll run into him then—it's about the only time he comes out, and then I'm pretty sure it's for research."

"He thinks humans are _fascinating,_" added in Bee, and Sam laughed. Trent covered a shiver. He didn't think dinner was sounding all that great.

"Where's Mikaela?" asked Trent, realizing that he hadn't seen her yet.

"Oh, she volunteered to go the meeting. Actually, we flipped a coin to see who would do what—I'm showing you around, and she's, uh, I don't know, a breathing body. I think Optimus Prime—he's the leader, have I told you that before?—wanted a more reliable source than the Internet when it comes to appropriate reactions to things."

They headed out of the common area and down another featureless hallway. It was quiet. Trent tried to bite back a yawn, but didn't manage to pull it off.

The robot—Bumblebee—and Sam were both looking at him when he finished.

"Maybe we should get you back to the med bay," said Bumblebee.

Sam nodded. "If you're tired. I mean, otherwise Ratchet would have our necks. He's—He's got strong views when it comes to taking care of his patients."

"Yeah," said Trent. "I'm really tired." He was starting to hurt, too, where he'd been injured, a _lot._

"Maybe we can show you the rest tomorrow, then."

"Yeah…"

oOo

It was damned embarrassing, how long it had taken Trent to get ready that morning, and how tired the process had left him. Changing clothes and washing himself shouldn't be a fucking _challenge_.

At least he was clean.

So what now?

He didn't know where Witwicky was—no, Sam. Or Mikaela, or Bumblebee. The gr—Ratchet had woken him up, and then headed into his office after he'd given him some instructions about how to get clean with a still-healing wound.

Yeah. What now? Had he managed to really piss Sam off? Was he just going to sit here for the next week or whatever, until he was allowed to leave? Was that really a bad thing?

—Yeah. Yeah, it would suck if he had to stay here, mostly alone, for that long. Even if it meant that he never had to deal with any of the Autobots.

Bumblebee could be kind of funny. Which was weird. They were _robots._

_So was Sam,_ some part of his mind whispered. He was funny, too. He'd laughed, yesterday. It had hurt.

But maybe he'd already fucked things up too badly for that to work out. There wasn't anybody there, after all. What _had_ he said yesterday? He didn't think he'd said a lot. Nothing too bad.

The sound of footsteps—more giant robot footsteps, did the humans here walk at all? No, there were, like, these weird walk-way things along the hallway, raised off of the ground, and then ladders, for people—in the hallway outside made him sit up, taking a deep breath. Maybe it would be Bumblebee.

It wasn't.

Trent didn't recognize the robot who walked in, and he tried to ignore how his heartbeat speeded up and his palms got sweaty.

Damn but it—_he_ was tall. Trent needed to remember it was a he, not an it. Because he didn't want to piss off one of the things. Bumblebee had been able to turn his arms into giant fucking _guns_. He'd bet the others could, too.

And it was rude.

"Hello," said the robot. He had a nice voice. That was weird. "I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots."

Trent gulped. The giant had gone straight from mildly terrifying to unbelievably horrifying, just like that. A robot was one thing. A robot that could turn into Witwicky's car was another. A robot that could probably pick up Sam's robot—okay, Bumblebee—and throw him and was in charge of God knew how many other giant robots, all of which could step on him and not even notice, was a third.

"I'll be in the common area," said the doctor-bot—Ratchet—stomping past the two of them, heading towards the door. "Optimus, don't stress him, and minimal activity, especially physical activity." He paused and looked at Trent, then spoke again, tone slightly nicer. "Just say so if you need anything—and I'll tell Bumblebee and the kids that you're up and should be free soon if I see them."

"Uh—thanks," Trent said weakly. He didn't think that the ro—Ratchet had heard him—he was already gone, out the door. The boy looked after him for a few minutes, nervous, before he turned to look at—Optimus Prime? Was that his name? And what the fuck was up with what the robots called each other?

"Um," he said again.

"I'm sorry you're uncomfortable," said Optimus. "Is there anything I can do to help with your nervousness?"

"I'm not _scared_," said Trent automatically, despite the fact that that was a bald-faced lie.

"I'm sorry," said the robot again. Then, after a minute of silence, "You have an elevated heart rate, and you're breathing heavily, both of which are possible indicators of stress, and your body language seems similar to that which is associated with nervousness, although I'll admit that I'm not an expert, when it comes to that."

Fuck. Trent could feel his cheeks flush hotly—he blushed too damn easily. It was embarrassing.

After a minute, the robot—yeah, Trent thought it (he) was named Optimus Prime, Sam had said something about something (someone) named that—started speaking again. "I'm sorry you were involved with this. It would—I would have preferred that Earth was never threatened by our war, or any other planet. It's caused—a lot of death. My home planet was destroyed."

Jesus. A _planet_, just— Trent couldn't imagine what it would be like to have that happen to Earth.

"Hopefully, you will be able to return to your home soon—although that is largely dependent on your government. You have my word that once this is over, your life will return to normal."

Trent doubted that. He could still remember the little robots attacking them, all angles and shiny bits of metal and sharp knives, only the cutting edges had been part of their bodies, and the other two humans next to him, and the protective bulk of Bumblebee, the smell of dust and the press of dry lips, his mouth partway open to gasp for air—

Optimus Prime spoke again, snapping Trent out of the memory; he repressed a shudder. "In the meantime, the Autobots who have made their way here, to earth, and Sam, Mikaela and our other human allies—we will all do our best to make your stay here as good an experience for you as we can."

"Thank you," said Trent blankly. Seriously? Some human who'd been stalking their friends was—they were treating him like a _guest!_

Or at least they were saying they were going to.

And, of course, he hadn't had much time to fuck things up, yet. Why'd it have to be Mikaela and Witwicky? No, _Sam_.

oOo

Maggie was trying to eat lunch.

'Trying' was the key word in that sentence. She had the sandwich, and some place to sit, and the time to eat, and certainly the desire—none of that was the problem. The three Autobots staring avidly at her _were_. The really-really-new newcomers—they were red and yellow, about the same height and she had the vague idea that their names both started with s, although she wasn't sure, she was horrible with names—had matching expressions, one she'd only ever seen before on the faces of her classmates in the sixth grade, while her science teacher had been feeding his python a microwaved rat.

The slightly-less-new Autobot—Wheeljack?—looked like he was watching a nature documentary.

The hacker put down her sandwich pointedly, swiveling her seat to glare impartially at the three Transformers.

"_What?_" she said, loudly.

"Oh! Sorry," said maybe-Wheeljack. "Um, I'm Wheeljack, it's nice to meet you."

"Maggie Madsen," she said, introducing herself. "My pleasure."

"Ohhh, you're one of the people who caught Frenzy! I read your file—it didn't have much information, but I wanted the chance to talk to you some time! What you did—it's incredible. He got into my lab system once, it was slagging hard to fix back up—and I have something of an advantage, I think. Well done!"

"It was mostly luck," Maggie said, shaking her head a little and deciding to ignore the other two Autobots—they were apparently ignoring her. "And it's my teacher, Glen, who really solved the problem."

"You humans have weird names," said the red one, finally speaking up. "I mean, they don't _mean_ anything." Almost as an afterthought, he added "I'm Sideswipe."

Maggie raised a single expressive eyebrow. "Really," she said. "And what does that say about you?"

"Not to drive too close," said Sideswipe, sounding sly and amused.

The yellow one made a noise that sounded remarkably like a snort, although he was now pointedly—and moodily—staring over Maggie's head, at an empty corner. It was actually somewhat reminiscent of herself talking with her mother at age fifteen, Maggie thought.

"So, who're you?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"Sunstreaker," he said flatly.

Well, he _was_ yellow, Maggie thought—and what was it about yellow Autobots that got them names based off of their appearance? At least, she _assumed_ Bumblebee was named Bumblebee because he was yellow with black stripes—he didn't have a stinger, certainly, (although he did have canons; then again, so did Ironhide) and he couldn't fly. Not that bumblebees were particularly good fliers, even though they were capable of it—actually, Maggie had always thought that they flew like they were drunk. They were probably the worst fliers she'd ever seen, when it came to flight-capable insects, although someone had once informed her that mosquito-eaters were worse. (1) She wasn't sure she _wanted_ to see something called a 'mosquito-eater.'

"Nice to meet you," she said, to be polite—even though it was pretty clear that manners weren't going to be a particular concern of his. "Any reason why you two were staring at me?"

"It's weird," said Sideswipe.

"What?"

"The way you refuel—it's _weird_."

"I beg your pardon—"

"And kind of nasty," added Sunstreaker.

"Hey—"

"It is pretty inefficient," said Wheeljack, sounding kind of sheepish again, like he felt bad about agreeing with the other two.

'Oh, _well_ then," muttered Maggie. "But I can see one real advantage to my method—I'm betting _you_ don't have a sense of taste."

'No," admitted Wheeljack.

"What's so great about that?" asked Sideswipe.

"Chocolate and BLTs," Maggie said with relish, her way of answering Sideswipe's question. And then she turned back to her sandwich: she was _hungry_. Even if it was rude to eat in front of people.

oOo

"Hey, 'Kaela," Sam said, sitting down beside her on the couch. Mikaela gratefully put aside her book—the one they'd been assigned class, Sam realized, somewhat guiltily: after all, he had to read it too—to face him, hugging him close for a minute before she pressed a kiss to his neck, the only part of him that she could reach, and then his lips when he moved a little further away, shifting so they could share a real kiss.

"Hey," she said once they broke apart, smiling at him. Sam couldn't help but smile back.

He couldn't believe how lucky he'd been. How lucky he was.

"You two are sickeningly adorable," Maggie announced from behind them, making the two teens jump.

"Hello, Maggie," said Mikaela cheerily, twisting around to look at the other woman. "You kind of surprised me there—"

Maggie rolled her eyes, but good-naturedly. She knew what it was like to be head-over-heels in love. "I just finished my lesson today—Ratchet let me free early, said he was still working on the new guy—and I wondered if you two had any plans for today. Ones I could join in on, that is." She smirked a little, and then smiled at the expressions her last comment had earned.

"Not really," Sam said, moving over a little so Maggie had more room to sit down. It also pressed him closer to Mikaela, which was a definite plus in his book. The way she curled her arm around him, head on his shoulder, made him think she thought so, too.

"I wonder how Trent's doing," Mikaela said, a little doubtfully. She hesitated, then added "Want to meet him?"

oOo

Optimus Prime had only been gone a little while, but because Ratchet hadn't returned, Trent had gotten the chance to regain a little composure, calm down a bit.

He'd heard someone—some Autobot—walking down the hallway outside the med bay once times, but it hadn't stepped in—he hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of who or whatever it was—so Trent wasn't expecting it when Bumblebee stepped into the room. He jumped, choking his urge to scream. He needed to be a man—that's what his dad had taught him. Otherwise you ended up _weird_, like Sam or his nerd friend—Miles Gillon.

But Sam had his ex-girlfriend and a wicked car. Who was a robot. Sam was happy. He didn't really care when he got spitwads flicked at him anymore—yeah, it annoyed him, but it was like it didn't even _matter_. It was weird.

"Hello," Trent said, realizing he needed to—he'd taken too long already. God damn, though, he didn't know what to say—He kind of wanted to thank the robot again. He'd saved his damn _life_. But he already had, he thought. And what did you say to a robot, anyways? Maybe he could ask Witwicky—Sam. If he was willing to answer Trent's question. Even if he did, Trent wouldn't know if he was telling the truth or not. Yeah, Sam seemed nice now—Mikaela had said something about how living through a battle bound people together. He thought so at least, but the pain meds were kind of fucking around with his head—but Trent had done a lot of stuff to him over the years. And Mikaela…

"Want to look around the base some more?" Bumblebee asked, jerking him out of his thoughts and into the real world. "You can meet Maggie."

"Okay," Trent said, trying not to think too hard about what he was agreeing to. He'd learned from football games just how easy it could be to psyche yourself out, and what happened when you did. "Sure."

He felt safe around Bumblebee, too—he wouldn't kill him after he'd saved him, right?—even though he also felt scared, or maybe just awkward, at the same time. And damn but he had no idea what to say. He didn't even know what the fucking _weather_ was like, so he couldn't say something stupid about that.

Where the fuck was he, anyways? And how come there weren't any damn windows? What were they, underground or something?

Bumblebee had said that Mikaela would be with them, this time. Trent hated spending time with ex-girlfriends.

But he didn't want to get back together with her. That was some sort of revelation. It was like a bolt of lightning as he carefully found a seat on Bumblebee's hand, so the robot could carry him.

Because he'd thought he had. He'd been all prepared to start the game all over again, take up the pursuit. He wasn't sure how he'd been going to go about it, other than waiting until something went wrong between her and Witwicky, but he'd been going to. After all, his dad had wanted him to. He'd said things like "A man dumps chicks, not the other way around," and scowled into his beer all night when Trent had told him he'd been dumped—been dumped in front of the rest of the guys, what's more, for something stupid—it would have been all right if she'd found out he'd been cheating on her, or something. His dad hadn't liked that. And Mikaela had only put out once, a few days before that had happened, but had been _damn_ good. He had no complaints there.

(See? He couldn't be gay. He fucked chicks—and liked it. He wasn't a _fag_.)

But…

Damn it, he _knew_ it wouldn't work now. Sam—Mikaela liked him. It—he had no chance.

And he'd feel bad if he did. Fucking hell. It was _Witwicky_.

_He'd kissed him…_

"So, rumor has it you met Optimus," said Bumblebee cheerily. Trent jerked again, involuntarily, and felt a wave of fear sweep through him at the uncontrolled movement. It was a long, long way to the floor.

"Yeah," Trent said, trying to ignore his dizziness.

There was a pause.

"…Well?" Bumblebee said, sounding slightly consternated.

"He was nice," Trent said, sounding distracted. "…I don't really get it." Damn. He should have been thinking more. He hadn't wanted to say that out loud—

Bumblebee was quiet for a minute. Trent sat still, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. God damn it! All he'd done since he'd gotten mixed up in this nightmare was fuck things up!

"Optimus Prime is my role model," Bumblebee said finally. "My hero. He's a lot of the reason I fight. I'd give my life to save him—and he wouldn't want me to. That's partly why I'd do it.

"He feels bad about you getting involved in this: it's not your battle, and you haven't even had the chance to choose, like Sam and Mikaela did. He just wants to do whatever he can to make up for what's happened to you."

"…_Really?_" Embarrassingly, Trent's voice squeaked, like the past three years hadn't happened and he was in the middle of puberty again.

Bumblebee stopped, pausing in the middle of the hallway. He shifted his hands a little, making Trent hold on tight with sudden panic, so he could look at the boy more fully. "Yeah," he said. "For what it's worth. I'd like to make this easier for you, too."

oOo

"Hey, Bee," Maggie called as he entered the room. "And, hey, newb. Nice to see someone else around this place. I'm Maggie."

"Hi," said Trent blankly as Bumblebee set him down—he seemed kind of eager to get off. Sam figured he was wondering what a gorgeous Australian in her early twenties was doing with the giant robots. He would probably blow a fuse when he found out that she was part of the resident geek unit. "I'm Trent."

"What's going on?" Bee asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down at the table the humans were sitting on, then leaning his head on his folded arms so he was more or less at eye level with them.

"Sam's having kittens about something or other," Maggie said blandly, looking up for a moment from the stack of papers she was flipping through—Trent could see some sort of complicated-looking graph accompanied by a chart fitted in through the text.

"I am not," Sam said, looking affronted. Mikaela snickered, and he mock-glared, then stuck his tongue out at her. "I'm… Debating. _Deliberating_, even."

"About what?" Bumblebee asked, apparently playing along. Trent sat down in a human-sized chair a little ways away, feeling out of place.

"What to tell Miles," Sam said with a heavy sigh.

Bee made a whistling noise that sounded kind of rude even to Trent. And he hadn't had much practice understanding the weird robot-language sounds.

"Oh, not you too—I just don't want him to freak out, you know? Not too badly, at least, I think a little's inevitable. And I've got to figure out what to tell him—about why I've been keeping this a secret, that is. But I don't—You guys don't do subtle."

"Hey," Bee said, sounding deeply amused. "We're _robots in disguise._"

Maggie snorted. "You all are about as subtle as a heart attack," she said.

"Subtle as a drag queen on a bender," Mikaela said, continuing the theme.

"Subtle as a brand-new blue truck with red flames in a residential district," Sam couldn't help adding. "Or a brand-new concept Camaro. Or a pair of matching Lamborghinis. Seriously, though, you got any ideas? I don't think any of the humans here have had a _good_ introduction to the whole transforming-robots thing… Sector Seven doesn't count. I mean, Will was attacked by a giant metal scorpion after a helicopter tore up the base; Maggie and Glen caught the little skittery thing hacking into the government computer system; I had you do weird things and then got attacked by Barricade, and Mikaela with me, only she had even less time to adjust; Mr. Secretary got this whole thing dumped on his lap— And then Trent. Yeeeah. But anybody know how Sarah getting introduced to Ironhide went?"

"Knowing Ironhide?" Bee said. "With lots of explosions."

"Point," Mikaela said dryly.

Trent knew he was missing something.

"It'll be a disaster no matter what you do," Maggie said, putting her papers aside and abandoning any pretense she'd had of actually working. "Just go with that, and hope that he doesn't wet himself." Bumblebee beeped his agreement.

"Fine," Sam said. "Hey, Trent, how're you?"

"Finally noticed I'm here," Trent muttered. Sam looked taken aback, and Mikaela bristled.

"Whoah," Maggie said. "What was that? I'm missing something, aren't I."

"History," Sam said dismissively. "I hope so, at least." He clearly changed the subject, turning to face Bumblebee more fully. "Hey, Bee, where were we yesterday when our tour got cut short?"

"We're missing the training area, brig, Autobot quarters and communications center," he said promptly. "Then there's more, but it's all unused rooms. Not very interesting. But I had an idea—we can use the database in the communications room to pull up the profiles of the other Autobots here—to give you a little heads up, Trent, kind of an advanced warning. You haven't met many of us, have you? Just me, Ratchet and Optimus."

"Yeah," Trent said, kind of wishing he was being left alone again. "Sounds great."

"Well, then, let's go," Mikaela said. "It'll take a while—with so many of us, we'll need to walk."

oOo

To his utter mortification, Trent had ended up being carried by Bumblebee. His stitches hurt too much for him to walk far.

"So what were those files you were talking about, again?" Sam asked, as they approached the communications room.

Bee paused for a minute—he was a little ways ahead of them anyways; it was hard to keep to the same speed as the humans, because of the distance of their stride compared to his.

"Well, we're a military group," he said. "We all have files. I can only get access to the basic profile with my clearance, but there's more there: medical records, disciplinary history, things like that. All we'll be able to see is a picture, a few facts and maybe a brief description or something. It varies a little. The file's attached to the Autobot it belongs to, and then you're supposed to upload it to the commander you're currently under when you first arrive. Back when we were more organized—back when there was still a Cybertron—there was a central database with it all on it, and it was supposed to get updated pretty regularly. That's gone now, of course, and I suppose someone who was a good enough hacker to do it, and do it discreetly, could fake an identity tag…"

"You mean they could be Decepticons or something?" Mikaela asked.

"Or just hiding war crimes."

"Well, _that's_ creepy," said Sam. "Seriously, Bee, not comforting. At all. Some of us squish easily."

"Speaking of not comforting," said Mikaela.

"Yeah," said Trent, sounding like he meant it whole-heartedly.

"Oh, come on—it's extremely unlikely, especially for a pair of bruisers like the two new ones. Battle mechs never have any subtlety—And I don't know about the third, but it's just about as unlikely, I'd say. He's still in the medbay somewhere. I'm pretty sure Ratchet put him in enforced stasis lock until he got him all fixed up."

Trent spoke up, nervously. "If—If you're not a, a 'battle mech,' what are you?"

"Me? Spy and scout." He flashed a grin. "_Much_ more intelligent, but not nearly as stuffy as the academic types."

oOo

(1) Mosquito-eaters are also called crane flies, which is what I know them as, and they really are hideously bad at flying. To be fair, they only have something like two days in their adult form, which looks like a mosquito on steroids, so they don't get much practice. I prefer the name crane flies because they don't actually eat mosquitoes—the adults actually have no mouths, existing only to mate and then die. The immature crane flies live in damp ground and eat roots, especially grass roots, making them a fairly common lawn pest—although they only thrive in soil that's too damp to be good for grass anyways.


End file.
